Shattered
by goldieasj
Summary: A ruthless bounty hunter leaves Heyes for dead and relentlessly tracks the Kid, intent on killing him, too.


**SHATTERED**

**By: Goldie**

* * *

"How many you figure?"

"Only one, Kid."

"_One!? _ Can't be!"

* * *

**THE HEAT OF THE DAY**

The force with which Hannibal Heyes was thrown to the dirt floor nearly dislocated his shoulder. He quickly rolled to his other side and sat partially up, able to catch a quick glimpse of the tiny darkened room before the door slammed behind him. In those few seconds, he was able to ascertain that he was alone and that the approximate dimensions of the room were eight feet by eight feet.

Smaller than the average jail cell.

He heard the loud thud of a heavy board being shoved into place as a lock against the door opening outward. Primitive but effective security against his escape.

So now he was alone. At first he believed he was in total darkness, but as his eyes adjusted, he realized that there was a small slit carved out of the bottom of the door, presumably for delivery of food. Heyes yielded to the temptation to get down on his belly to look through the hole. The act of lowering himself to the floor was one too many level changes. He had hit his head on a rock when his horse had been shot and the act of crouching down suddenly caused nausea and dizziness. Heyes groaned and lost consciousness.

* * *

When Hannibal Heyes awoke some time later, he did not at first remember where he was. His head ached terribly and he was thirsty, nauseous and uncomfortably hot in the overheated room. When he put his hand to his head he felt dried blood. He looked around and saw only darkness except for the small slit at the bottom of the door. He was lying in the same spot where he had passed out so he was able to see through the slit with very little body movement. The sun was shining brightly and hurt his eyes at first. He felt his stomach lurch and had to look away for a moment to steady himself. He slowly drew his gaze back to the outside and allowed his eyes to adjust gradually. Now he could see.

The scene that presented itself didn't help him to remember what had happened. He was gazing at a kind of courtyard surrounded by makeshift buildings. Buildings that had been erected in haste. There was one large one that looked like it might be a bunkhouse and there were several smaller buildings. He brought his gaze as far to the right and left as he could see. The small room he occupied was in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by the other buildings. But these buildings were clearly abandoned. They had obviously been erected quickly and cheaply and had not survived the elements well. It took Heyes a moment to understand his situation. Once he understood that, he started remembering what had happened to bring him to such a place.

The Army had been here – maybe during the War, maybe after. Heyes saw the flagpole and realized that this place had once been populated with scores of military men. The bunkhouse had been a barracks, another large building had been a mess hall, and the smaller buildings had probably been living quarters for officers.

And the building he was in had been a jail.

Heyes searched his imagination for other possibilities but, painfully, somehow knew he was right. He had heard stories of deserters or other uniformed rule-breakers and how they had been thrown into solitary confinement as punishment for what he considered meager crimes. They had been expected to wait out their sentences within the confines of a tiny room that allowed little light and no protection from the cold of the night or the heat of the day. In the center of the hustle and bustle of a busy military installation their embarrassment – and discomfort - must have been profound. Heyes shook his head sadly in empathy with his unknown comrades until he remembered that he was now in that very same situation.

Only this time there was no Army nearby. In fact, it had probably been years since they had deserted this camp. There was no one at all nearby. There was no one to give him food or water. There was no one to secure his eventual release. He was alone.

Trying hard to rein in his sudden feeling of panic, Heyes searched the courtyard again for any signs of life but saw none. He called out loudly but his only response was another sensation of nausea. Ignoring it, he stood and concentrated his entire body weight against the door. Using all the strength he could muster, he slammed into the door again and again in an effort to dislodge the board that was securing it. But to no avail. After several minutes of this, the only thing he had to show for his efforts was more pain and dizziness. Heyes stood unevenly upright and stared down at the small slit in the door with dread.

Then his rare feeling of panic took a different turn. For Hannibal Heyes now had more important things on his mind than the head wound or even his prison. For Hannibal Heyes suddenly remembered having watched his partner get shot.

* * *

**THE COOL OF THE NIGHT**

"How many you figure?"

"Only one, Kid."

"_One!?_ Can't be!"

* * *

Only one.

By the unfiltered light of the full moon Kid Curry could remain hidden and still detect glimpses of his aggressor. The man was forty, maybe sixty, yards away. And moving closer. Moon notwithstanding, the night sometimes played tricks on the eyes. The Kid squinted in hopes of a better view.

Now he could see the general direction his attacker was taking. Kid Curry stood perfectly still and noiseless. His right arm, his gun arm, hung expectantly at his side. But of course it would be useless.

The Kid's gun was cradled in his left hand. Although the night was very cold, the Kid was dismayed to feel a thin layer of moisture between his hand and the cold steel. He did not like the emotion of fear; it brought a bitter taste to the back of his mouth. The fear made him glance down at the gun for reassurance. It was there, it was ready. Ready for his bidding. The Kid appreciated the irony. He wished he was as ready.

He glanced down to reassure himself that he was sufficiently hidden behind the shrubbery. It seemed he was, but any small noise on his part would call attention to his location. And shrubbery would not stop a bullet. His right arm suddenly began to pain him again – the fear? – and he fought the desire to gasp. This time he felt the pain all the way up into his throat. Yes, it was fear. He knew it now. He tasted it. The only taste more bitter was the anticipation of loss.

That was there, too. Kid Curry felt his body weaken at the thought and forced, mentally shoved, the thought to the back of his mind. Later. If he was still alive.

Once again he focused on the movement that he could detect. The man was still too far away for him to attempt an accurate shot. Not with his left hand, anyway. He needed to be able to get a good view of his aggressor and he did not have that yet. Stealthily he waited behind the bush. It seemed the man was moving in his direction, probably following the trail as best he could.

The trail of blood. Once again the pain of the shattered bone in his right arm surprised him. He grimaced and involuntarily reached for the arm. No! he thought, consciously returning his left hand – his new gun hand – to the ready position. He hoped to God he had not made any noise because he did not remember.

But the sudden flicker of a gunshot in the darkness, the roar of a gunshot in the night, told him he had been discovered. The leaves near his head resounded with the split of a bullet. The Kid crouched down. Another bullet, also close but also missing. The Kid dropped to the ground completely. Instinctively his right arm tried to find the gun position. He fought back the pain, the pain and the taste of fear. Both, he knew, would be useless now. Ignoring his right arm, he brought his left arm into position as noiselessly as possible.

Killing position.

From that posture on his stomach he had lost the limited view he had had earlier. He knew that the noise his body had made as he crashed to the ground would cause elation but also suspicion in his attacker. He knew that he had to make himself ready, that one shot would most likely be all he would have. He tensed and waited noiselessly.

He did not have long to wait. In a moment, his keen ears detected the sound of gentle footfall on leaves. He turned to the sound and pointed his gun in that direction. He listened closely. Yes, it was the sound of someone slowly walking in his direction. Once again Kid Curry rued the loss of his right arm and the layer of sweat between his left hand and his gun. The taste of fear was bitter in his mouth. A fleeting thought occurred to him – the thought that he did not remember having been afraid before.

As if by instinct, the Kid suddenly knew the position of his attacker. In that instant he reacted. Gunfire was exchanged simultaneously. The sound of two discharging firearms filled his ears. The light as the barrels exploded seemed to brighten the sky. In that split second he had a clear view of the outline of his attacker, as, he supposed, his attacker had of him. He waited for the bullet.

But only the bullet from the Kid's gun found its mark. The Kid was awarded another quick view of his attacker's body hitting the ground as his gun harmlessly fired into the night sky. The man fell hard, face up and arms at his sides.

The Kid rose to his knees and then stood slowly, keeping his firearm cocked and pointed at his attacker the entire time. He ventured forward cautiously with all senses alert. The closer he got to the body, the more he realized that his foe was indeed dead. When he reached the body, he kicked the gun away and turned the man over with his foot. He leaned down to assure the man was dead. He was appalled at the sight of this man who had followed him and Heyes for days and tried to kill them. The sour taste returned to his mouth. This confused him – he did not feel any fear at all. He knew with certainty that the man – a bounty hunter - had worked alone.

As he looked with disdain upon his adversary, Kid Curry began to realize that the bitterness he tasted so strongly was not fear at all, but hatred. This was the man who had shattered his right arm with a shot and who had tried – unsuccessfully – to kill him. And this was the man who was responsible for the anguish he felt at having to leave his partner behind.

And this was the man who had shot his partner's mount, causing Heyes to fall and strike his head.

Many hours and miles ago.

* * *

**THE HEAT**

Hannibal Heyes was not thinking clearly. He wondered how it could be so hot in his prison when, only a few hours ago (or was it days now?), it had been so cold. Heyes had shed most of his clothing, including his boots, in an effort to try to cool down his body. But the midday sun relentlessly baked the adobe of his prison room and he had no relief. The bouts of semi-consciousness were gone, but Heyes still found himself dizzy and disoriented from the fall he had taken. He spent most of his time lying on the ground with his head near the small slit in the door. It was easier to breathe this way since the air inside the room was stifling. The courtyard air wasn't much better, but at least it seemed less hot. At first he had occasionally called out, hoping for someone to hear, but by now he had abandoned that practice.

He had abandoned most of the hope of escape also. Heyes was very hungry and parched for water and he had begun hallucinating, he knew. It took all of his energy to recognize what was real and what was imaginary. He thought often of water and visualized pitchers within reach, but when he grabbed for them, they disappeared. He knew he was in a bad way.

But he also knew that he was better off than Kid Curry. In addition to everything else he had to contend with, Heyes found himself worrying over the Kid. When he was lucid he forced himself to remember the last time he had seen his partner. Thinking about the Kid kept him sane. He remembered them riding hard for two – maybe three – days from a relentless bounty hunter. Their trail had somehow been picked up by a real pro and they had been dogged by this ruthless, persistent pursuer who followed them closely no matter how hard they tried to shake him. Often he was even within their sight. They had no choice but to keep running.

By the time they had entered the abandoned Army encampment they were bone-tired. They knew their pursuer was right behind them but they considered that the buildings would offer a cover of sorts for them to take a safe attack stance. Heyes remembered still being on horseback, in the middle of the yard, when they suddenly heard a bullet ring out. The Kid yelped and grabbed his right arm, barely managing to stay mounted. Heyes remembered being surprised – stupid, he thought now – and looking wildly around for a place to get the Kid to immediate cover. Before he had the chance to act, he felt himself falling at the same time he heard the second bullet. It seemed to happen in slow motion for him. He instinctively knew his horse had been hit. He tried to brace himself for the impact with the ground but still hit his head on something hard. Heyes got immediately onto all fours and looked for his partner. The Kid was still atop his mount and was riding back toward him, holding out his good arm and beckoning him to jump up behind him to escape. Heyes could see the Kid's other arm and it was bloody. Instinctively Heyes knew that neither of them would have a chance if he did what the Kid wanted. "Go, Kid, ride!" he yelled to his partner. "Go, go!" They exchanged an anguished look and Heyes watched with relief as his partner rode away at a gallop. He remembered nothing after that until being thrown into his prison.

This story re-played itself in his mind again and again. He was deeply worried about his partner, far more than he was worried about himself. If the Kid had not come back for him by now, there was a good chance the bounty hunter had caught up with him. Or – from the looks of that bloodied arm – there was also a chance that . . .

that . . .

Each time this thought occurred to Heyes he squeezed his eyes shut as a way of keeping it from progressing. The idea that the Kid might be dead was more than he could bear under the circumstances. Or under any circumstances.

His thirst was beginning to take a toll on his body. Although aware of his hallucinations, he was still unable to stop himself from attempting to drink from the pitchers he believed he saw. Again and again he fell face-first to the ground in rapture, only to find himself eating the dirt of the floor in his prison. Each time this discovery brought new angst. Heyes crawled around the floor, continually looking for some means of escape. But, of course, there was none.

At one point, Heyes conceived what he thought was a brilliant idea. He leaned against the wall, panting, as he tried to think it through. He knew how vulnerable he was to convolution in his thinking and did not trust himself. But he had picked up a ray of hope and the excitement of this promise caused his body to shiver. He decided to speak his idea out loud. At the first sound of his voice, he started. Except for groans, he had not heard the sound of a human voice for some time.

"My boot! Where's my boot?" Heyes looked around , utilizing the meager light from the food slit in the door. "Dammit! Where's my boot?" He crawled slowly around his prison. When he came upon one of his boots, he grabbed it and hugged it to his chest. "Thank God!" The boot to him represented freedom, albeit a freedom that had to be earned. He knew he was not physically ready but also knew he had no choice. He nuzzled the boot on his face and allowed himself the meager delight of feeling contact with something besides earth. "Save me," he whispered to the boot. "We can do this."

Slowly, painfully, Hannibal Heyes crawled back to the door. Grabbing the toe end of the boot, he dug the heel into the hard earth and pulled back. A small amount of dirt came with it. Heyes tried to blow away the dirt but didn't have enough strength, so he pushed it to the side with his free hand. He repeated the gesture with the boot and, gratified, again noticed that some dirt had been dislodged. Now finding his strength bolstered with hope, he worked harder to scrape the boot on the ground. Over and over he scratched through the dirt with his boot, each time being rewarded with more dirt that he pushed to the side. In a few moments, he began to joyfully realize that a small hole was forming.

Hannibal Heyes was digging himself to freedom.

* * *

**THE COOL**

Kid Curry wasted no time at all in beginning the long trek back to the deserted camp. He was exhausted and famished but knew time was of the essence in reaching his partner. His partner, who might already be dead. The thought that the two of them were wanted dead or alive was strong and painful. He knew the bounty hunter had nothing to lose by taking a few minutes to kill Heyes before beginning his pursuit of his other quarry. The Kid had not heard a shot. But there were other ways to kill someone. Certainly the bounty hunter had at the very least taken the time to subdue Heyes so he would be waiting for him when he returned. A nice $10,000 prize all trussed up and ready for his bidding. This thought, at least, meant that Heyes was still alive. When the other thought threatened to take over, the Kid tried hard to concentrate on this one.

To keep his mind focused, the Kid tried to picture Heyes in a comical situation. Perhaps the bounty hunter had tied him to a tree. The Kid knew the coyotes would bother him at night, but Hannibal Heyes would probably allow them to sneak up on him and then startle them with a sudden shout. Or bore them to death with one of his lectures on the importance of learning to read. A small smile stole across the Kid's even features but disappeared when he remembered anew that Heyes's condition was unknown. At that point, Kid Curry would have given just about anything to know that his partner was still alive. The love he felt for his friend and the shame he felt at disappointing his friend were both overpowering.

A few hours into the night were all the wearied Kid Curry could handle before almost literally falling off his mount. A cold light rain was beginning to fall. The Kid looked up at the hazy moon and pleaded for leniency. He knew it was a long ride back to the Army camp where he had last seen his partner, and he needed help to get there in time. Help from the weather; continuing rain would wash away the hoofprints he was following. He held out his hat to save rain for drinking water and at the same time pleaded for it to stop. The night was cold but the cool rain felt good against his face.

In a few minutes the rain stopped. The Kid dismounted to look closely at the ground. Mercifully, the prints were still visible. He drank some of the water collected in his hat and poured the rest into his canteen. He watched as his thirsty mount drank from a newly-formed puddle. "Just a little while, old friend," he said to his horse. "We both need a rest." The Kid unrolled his bedroll on the hard ground and was asleep as soon as he crawled into his makeshift bed.

* * *

**HEAT**

In his delirium, Hannibal Heyes did not know how long he had been imprisoned in the room. It could have been a few hours; it could have been a few days. He managed to remain conscious for the most part but drifted fitfully in and out of sleep. The hit he had taken to the head provided a constant dull pain and a reminder of the reason for his dilemma. Perhaps if he would not have been knocked out, he might have been able to fight the bounty hunter.

He spent little time dwelling on his own predicament, however. When he was lucid enough to think clearly, he thought mostly of the Kid. He had last seen Kid Curry riding away from him with a bullet wound in his gun arm. There had been a moment's hesitation, Heyes remembered, as they had gazed at each other to say goodbye. A moment only, but apparently enough of a delay to cause the bounty hunter to eventually catch up with the Kid. There was no other possible explanation for the fact that the Kid had not come back to rescue him. Heyes knew that this made no sense but still chose to believe it.

But if that was true . . . If that was true, then Heyes didn't really care what happened to himself. If the Kid was dead at the hands of the bounty hunter, then . . .

Then . . .

Then sometimes the sleep came over him mercifully to temporarily end the pain. And each time when he awoke, sometimes only minutes later, Heyes once again thought first of the Kid. And each time these thoughts were enough to cause him to lose his perspective. And his will to live.

Heyes no longer had any strength left. Hunger and particularly thirst, coupled with the heat of the day, had sapped him of any real life force. He had long since abandoned the effort to dig a hole under the door with his boot heel; each stroke had been a major feat of strength and his body no longer had the energy it needed. He remembered when it had become clear to him that he would be incapable of performing this feat, he had used the boot heel instead to scrawl a simple message on the floor. He tried to find that message now but his eyes would not do his bidding. Heyes lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling, unable to actually see it. Perhaps because of the limited light but more likely because of his failing body and mind. At one point Heyes lethargically turned his head to see the hole he had dug. He was confused over it at first and then remembered his wasted herculean efforts.

Hannibal Heyes knew he was dying and he did not care. He hoped for a quick merciful death. He hoped that he would be re-joined with his friend in the next life. The desire to see the Kid again was so strong that it shook his body. The thought that the Kid had to die so young saddened him terribly. But there wasn't enough moisture in his body to produce the tear he believed he felt run down his face. Nor did he have the strength to brush it away, as he believed he was doing.

His discomfort and isolation led to Heyes's eccentric thoughts generally running on in a negative pattern – sometimes he felt sorry for himself but mostly he thought sadly of his partner dying.

Then another simple thought suddenly occurred to him – a notion that was basic but so powerful that it pushed all others to the back of his mind.

Perhaps the Kid was still alive!

The hope and joy carried with this simple thought brought new life to the body that was abandoning Heyes. He began to feel the blood flowing in his veins again and the power that had left his muscles almost seemed to be returning. Heyes felt a small smile on his lips and the very fact that he was able to smile brought him deep comfort. Inwardly, he thanked the Kid for this change. With contentment, Heyes thought back over the life he and the Kid had shared – first as childhood friends, then as train robbers, then as reformed outlaws. All had been pleasing to him and all had been shared with the Kid. Heyes reflected sadly that he had never thanked the Kid for being there, for being his friend. Even though he knew he was dying, Heyes suddenly wanted desperately to be able to contact the Kid one more time. To thank him. To tell him that he cared. But Kid Curry was not there.

* * *

**COOL**

When Kid Curry awoke, the sun was well-risen. It didn't take long for him to remember his situation, but he seemed to be moving woodenly and slower than normal. Part of the reason was undoubtedly the firm damp ground on which he had been resting. But the main reason was his right arm, through which a bullet had recently passed.

In his grave concern for his partner, the Kid had almost forgotten about his own injury. Now he was forced to notice the arm, which was swollen and bloody. More rain had collected in the hat during the night and he used some now to clean the bullet wound as best he could.

At first it felt awkward to use his left arm to care for his right, but then he remembered, sadly, that it was his left arm that had been used to kill a man yesterday. Kid Curry had never thought of himself as a killer but he knew now that he would no longer be able to think that way. As much as he had hated that bounty hunter, he would have preferred to have been able to outrun him. The man had forced a showdown and he had died as a result.

There was some small glory for the Kid in knowing that he himself had not died. That he had been able to save himself.

And there was angst in not knowing how Heyes was.

Quickly the Kid finished tending to his shattered arm. He examined it closely to determine the depth of the injury. It looked worse than it really was; the bullet had caused much surface damage but he concluded that the bone underneath was not touched, as he had originally thought. Satisfied that he would live, he wrapped a shirt around his arm and tied it tight with his good hand and his teeth pulling the other end.

He ate a couple pieces of jerky and then scavenged the ground quickly for anything else that looked edible. There were berries and nuts and not much of either but they would have to do. He gobbled some of them down greedily and poured the remaining water into his canteen. Grabbing the reins of his horse, he pulled himself up into the saddle, taking off at a pace that was as fast as his wounded body would allow.

* * *

**WARMTH **

The pace Kid Curry demanded of his mount was almost more than his exhausted horse could manage, and took a toll on himself as well. His right arm was next to useless and put strong demands on the rest of his body. The Kid had always had the ability to remain focused, a strength that served him well in his pursuit of his partner. But he did not seem to understand that his body could not keep up with his relentless drive. He knew Heyes was in serious trouble and he knew Heyes needed him.

What he did not know was whether or not Heyes was still alive.

And this was the reason for his unrelenting persistence, his focused drive, and for his waning energy as he traveled as quickly as he could. He stopped only when he felt his mount needed a rest, never when he thought he himself might. His horse was the means to the end, and as such it had to be kept alive. The Kid himself stopped for food and water only when he gave his horse a break.

Another reason he did not like to take breaks was the fact that there was nothing to do at these times but think. And there was only one thought on his mind. Over and over again he pictured the agonized look on Heyes's face as his partner coerced him to leave. The Kid had made an instant decision and wondered constantly if it had been the right one. He had persevered over his attacker; nonetheless his separation from his partner and the inability to know if he was alive or dead was very painful for Kid Curry. His instincts were negative. He believed he had failed Heyes and he had to make it up to him somehow.

If Heyes was still alive.

The trail was not hard to follow. He remembered it, for the most part. The further away he got from the scene of his showdown, the closer he knew he was to Heyes. At one point he dismounted to study the ground closely. He cringed when he realized that the sign he was studying was dried blood which had most likely come from his own arm. For a moment he cradled his injured arm with his other hand, then chastised himself for taking time away from his quest. He re-mounted quickly and pulled the reins in the direction of the Army campsite, hoping desperately that he was close.

Hannibal Heyes lay as if dead. He was no longer aware of time. He was no longer aware of pain. He no longer knew if it was night or day, cold or hot. He had abandoned the struggle to stay alive. His original hope that Kid Curry would rescue him died when he realized that the Kid most likely had died at the hands of the bounty hunter. This final realization guided his thoughts and emotions from that point forward. It was no longer important for him to cling to life. He lay still and waited for death to claim him. He welcomed death as the means by which he would be reunited with his partner.

Heyes drifted in and out of consciousness. When awake, he occasionally opened his eyes to view the last sight he ever expected to see – the military courtyard – through the slit in the door. But the simple act of opening his eyes used more energy than he could spare and he closed them again. He occasionally whispered something but his voice was so weak he could not hear himself. His hallucinations had tapered off as his body prepared itself for its final rest.

A few hundred yards from the clearing, Kid Curry did something he had not done before – he dug the heels of his boots into the sides of his mount, causing his exhausted horse to pick up an already frenetic pace for the last furlong of the trip.

When he reached the clearing, he reined up sharply. A quick look around was unnecessary – somehow he knew Heyes was in the prison room with the bolted door. The Kid stared at the door for a moment, unable to make his body do what he knew had to be done. His fear was very deep, not fear of an enemy but fear of the unknown – the dreaded unknown. His injured arm unexpectedly began to pain him and brought him back to his senses. Quickly he moved as only a gunfighter knew how. In one swift move he grabbed the canteen from his saddle horn with his good arm and slid to the ground.

Ignoring the pain in his arm, the Kid sprinted to the door of the room and shoved the board aside. The door did not swing open; nor did the Kid attempt to move it. He stared at the door, suddenly frozen with dismay. Instead of using his good arm to pull open the door, he used it to cradle his injured arm. Kid Curry wanted more than anything to pull the door open, to pull it from its hinges if necessary, to see his partner inside.

But, also more than anything, Kid Curry was afraid to do just that. He did not know what condition he would find Heyes in and he did not think he could handle finding his partner dead. He stared at the door for what seemed like hours, forgetting to breathe, unaware of anything but the thought that his friend was dead because he had failed him.

He had failed Heyes . . .

Then – suddenly – in what may have been an act of superhuman strength, Kid Curry violently pulled on the door and stepped inside the room.

He came close to stepping on his partner, who was lying on the floor with his face close to the doorframe. The sudden light flooded Heyes's body, and he appeared to be dead. The Kid dropped heavily to his knees, whispering a prayer, and felt his partner's neck for a pulse. It took a moment to find the right spot. When he finally found it and felt a weak pulse, the Kid was not sure if it was the beating of a heart he was feeling or the shaking of his own body.

It was a pulse! Heyes was alive!

Overcome with joy, the Kid took a moment to steady his nerves, then patted his partner on the face to awaken him. "Heyes," he said gently, "Heyes, it's me." When there was no response, he realized that Heyes needed water more than anything. He reached for the canteen slung over his shoulder and opened it. He placed the canteen to Heyes's lips and allowed some of the water to trickle out. As soon as Heyes felt the life-giving water on his face, he began to gasp for it. "Easy, easy," cooed the Kid. "There's plenty."

Heyes tried to gulp the water, but the Kid warned him to take it easy. Heyes drank as much as the Kid would allow him and found enough strength to clumsily reach for the canteen himself. Much of the treasured water spilled so the Kid maneuvered Heyes into a sitting position before allowing him to drink more. "Take it easy," he said soothingly. "You'll be all right now."

In a moment, Heyes was able to relax. He took a good look at the Kid. "Kid," he fairly breathed, affection obvious in his face. "I didn't think you'd make it. I thought we were both goners."

The Kid gave his partner a false smile, a smile that he didn't feel. "Nah, you know I wouldn't . . . I wouldn't . . ." He looked away for a moment and Heyes glimpsed the true emotion behind the false words. The Kid was working hard to look impassive but Heyes knew him too well. In a moment the Kid looked down and said softly, "I wouldn't leave you behind."

Heyes watched closely as the Kid sighed deeply, stood, and said, "Don't try to talk any more. Let's just get you out of here." He leaned down to put his good arm around his partner to pull him up, assessing the severity of the head wound as he did so. Heyes had a great deal of trouble walking but the Kid supported him as he moved his partner from the hot room to the cool shade of a tree at the edge of the clearing. Gently the Kid leaned his partner against the tree. "I'll be right back," he said.

Returning to his horse, he retrieved some beef jerky and bits of fruit he had stashed into his saddlebag. He walked back to his partner, aware that Heyes's deep brown eyes were on him the whole time. For some reason, this unnerved him. He wondered why.

"Here," he said, crouching and handing the food to Heyes, "try to eat some of this."

Heyes took the food gratefully and ate, slowly at first, then greedily after a few minutes. "Thanks," he said between bites, "for everything, Kid."

Again the Kid felt disturbed by his partner. He checked to be certain that Heyes was taken care of properly, mumbled something, and stood and walked toward the room. The room in which his beloved friend had almost died. He did not know why he needed to see it again, but there was some thought, some image, some vague idea in the back of his mind that had to be satisfied. It had something to do with Heyes's appreciation. He could not tell exactly what it was but he knew the answer to his unfocused question lay in that room.

As he peered into the darkness and allowed his eyes to adjust to the minimal light, the Kid looked carefully around for something that might seem out of place. He shuddered at the blood on the floor and turned from it. His eyes moved to the walls and then the ceiling in search of some entity unknown, something nagging at his consciousness. Nothing seemed out of place. The adobe of the walls showed signs of men having chipped at it years ago, or perhaps even recently. The Kid ran his fingers over some of the etchings, allowing his mind to wander. And then he knew.

He turned back to the area of the floor where Heyes had lain and knelt down to look more closely. There he saw the small hole that Heyes had tried to dig with his boot heel as a means of escape. He smiled gently as he imagined the hope and effort that would have sustained his friend, for a short while, at least, as he worked at his task. And then, just inches away, he saw something else etched into the floor.

The letters _KID I_.

Kid Curry gently ran his fingers over the letters that had apparently been painstakingly carved. He sat down, leaning back against the wall. Four more letters had been carved but were unclear. The Kid had seen these carvings when he had rescued Heyes but they had not registered with him until now. What did they say? What did they mean? The Kid made a mental note to ask Heyes about it when his partner could easily speak again. He looked through the doorway to see his friend resting in the courtyard. He mused as he absently watched Heyes, hoping to be able to answer the mystery himself. His thoughts were of his partner, the fact that Heyes had almost died, his courageous act of forcing the Kid to leave without him, the painful struggle he had to stay alive in the terrible room, his loss of hope, his loneliness, what he must have been going through, his belief that the Kid had died . . .

. . . how Heyes had always had a special place in his heart for the Kid . . .

And then Kid Curry knew what the words were, what Heyes had been trying to etch into eternity. And the Kid felt tears in his eyes.

He sat alone for a moment in the darkness, crying, allowing the tension of the last few days to claim him. When he finally stood, he felt almost like a different man. The purpose of his life, never clear before, now asserted itself through his entire being. He felt a peace in his soul that he had not experienced ever before. And he knew what he wanted – needed – to do. And how he was needed in return.

Kid Curry wiped his face with his hands before he walked back to his partner. He would never fail him again.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

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